Black Fire
Author
Elena Ayre
Reads
15,1K
Chapters
37
As his hand drifted up my neck, he felt like a beast. "You saved my life Juliette," he said. "And now I am bound to you. It is a bond that cannot be broken until my debt is repaid. Until I fulfill your deepest desires, I cannot, and I will not, let you go.”
When Juliette pulls a warrior back from the edge of death, she never expects the price to be a bond that binds her to him. Fierce, unyielding, and impossible to ignore, he swears he won’t release her until her heart’s desire is fulfilled. But what exactly does she crave? A bond forged in fire becomes a dangerous game of power, passion, and unspoken need. Every glance is a dare, every touch a promise—and with each moment, the line between captor and protector blurs. Juliette must decide whether the bond is her cage or her key… and just how far she’s willing to let him go to give her everything she secretly longs for.
Chapter 1
JULIETTE
Droplets of crimson red tumbled down the shaft of sunlight, pooling into a large patch of dark scarlet that shone like a torn piece of velvet on the ground by my feet.
I crouched down. It was blood—thick red blood—and it was fresh.
I had taken cover under the canopy of a giant fir tree while a howling rainstorm shattered the sky. But now, the air was still and silent.
As mist rose from the damp earth like sparkling sheets of gossamer, and the last drips of moisture slipped down over silken wet leaves, I stepped out from under my shelter and looked up.
Through the dense winding branches of the giant tree, I could see something—flicks and flecks of a different color and texture, not a part of the tree itself. It was something else, something…
I stepped around, straining my neck for a better look. The sun hit my eyes, but not before I had seen what was above.
It was a human, and they were tethered to the trunk, like a sacrifice that was ready to be taken by the vultures.
In sudden alarm, I shouted up, “Hello!”
My voice drifted with the breeze and the dancing light.
“Hello!” I called again, cupping my hands around my mouth.
The only response was a bird’s startled cry and the rush of wings.
But the more I looked, the more I felt sure of what I had seen.
I had to do something.
I set my bag and my sketch pad down on the ground, took out a small knife from my belt, wrapped my arms around the tree, and dug the blade into the thick bark. Hoisting myself up, I began to climb.
The higher I got, the clearer it became.
It was a man, bound tightly with thick, winding rope, and I could not tell whether he was alive or dead.
I scrambled to the branch closest to where he was anchored and called out to him.
“Can you hear me? My name is Juliette. I am here to help you.”
There was no response, and I feared he was dead.
His whole torso and legs were tethered so fiercely that I could see the partially congealed blood oozing from his skin. His head had rolled to the side, and his eyes were closed.
I reached down and placed my fingers on his neck. I felt a pulse—slow, but strong.
“Can you hear me?” I asked. “You are alive. Can you hear me?”
I saw his mouth twitch.
“I am going to get you down,” I said. “I will cut the ropes with my knife and free you.”
My eyes lingered over him. His body was long and wide. His shoulders were broad and muscular, and they bore many deep scars.
He looked strong and powerful. Even with the thick ropes biting savagely into him, I would not have been surprised if he suddenly broke through his bonds.
His jaw was shadowed with thick, dark stubble, and his features were strong and chiseled. There was a raw strength in his face and a grim expression that said he bore pain like a warrior.
He was a beast of a man, and even though I had firmly decided that he was of the warrior people—that he was the enemy—I found myself deeply drawn to him.
I shook myself free of my thoughts as his breath grew labored.
He was running out of time. I had to act now.
With my knife, I began to saw at the rope around his wrists. If I could free his hands, he might be able to help himself while I loosened the rest of him.
The rope was densely twined—whoever had tied it had shown no mercy. Slowly but surely, the threads began to break apart.
My angle was awkward, and beads of sweat began to form on my brow as my arms started to ache. I did not stop to rest, for the more freedom I gave him, the more his dying spirit seemed to revive.
“Have you come to finish me off?” His voice was low, and his tone mocking.
“No. I have come to cut you down. But we are very high up. How much strength do you have?”
“The strength of a thousand men,” he replied as a weak smile crept onto his lips.
“Maybe when you are well, you have such strength—but right now, you are weak.”
He flinched at my words, and suddenly the hand I had freed reached out and grabbed my wrist.
The shock made me drop my knife.
Desperately, I flung out my other hand to try and catch it, but it was out of reach.
All I saw was the glint of its edge, caught in the shaft of sunlight as it tumbled to the forest floor.
“I dropped my knife,” I cried out. “Now I will have to climb down again and retrieve it!”
With more strength than he should have had under the circumstances, he pulled my wrist toward him, then placed it low onto his left thigh.
“What are you doing?” I protested. “Are you trying to throw me down from here? I am not your enemy. If you treat me as such, you will have no chance of surviving!”
My palm was outspread on the taut muscles of his thigh, and he was holding it firmly down. Precariously, my legs clung to the branch which held me.
I was confused—I didn’t know what he was doing. If he continued to try and dominate me with his strength, then I was done for.
“Move your hand inward,” he said in a low rasp. “I have a knife. Take it from me and cut me loose.”
“But…”
His eyes were wide open now. They were black as midnight, but they burned with a wild inner fire.
He guided my hand farther inward, the heat of his skin searing my palm as my finger traced the contours of his inner thigh muscles before brushing over his leather-covered groin.
I burned with a pointless kind of embarrassment.
I had never touched a man in such an intimate place, yet his eyes were unperturbed by my movements, staring so solidly into mine that they commanded me to do as his body told me.
On the other side of his groin, at the innermost part of his thigh, I felt something that was not of flesh and bone. I frowned as my fingers slid over it.
“Is it…?” I whispered.
“Yes,” he gasped. “Take it out.”
Our eyes locked. In his, there was a steely strength—in mine, there was apprehension.
The knife was sheathed in a leather pouch. With a deep breath, I wound my fingers around its handle and began to pull.
Suddenly, his hand clenched mine.
“Slowly,” he growled. “Be very careful.”
Tearing my eyes from his, I slowly pulled out the knife.
“Start with my legs,” he said.
I hooked my legs around the branch of the tree and spun myself downward so that I hung upside down and was able to reach the rope on his legs.
With his freed hands, he supported my shoulders and kept my legs from growing weary. Without his strength to anchor and steady me, I don’t think I could have done it.
“You okay?” I asked, taking a breath halfway through.
“Just a little tickled, but it is a nice distraction,” he replied.
“Tickled?”
“Your hair—the way it falls over my feet. It is distracting.”
His breath was labored, but there was a smile in his eyes.
“Ah,” I replied. “But don’t talk anymore. You will need all your strength for the next bit.”
Once his legs were free, he was able to wind them around the trunk and take some of his own weight.
I pulled myself back up onto the tree branch and called down to him.
“Can you reach up to this branch? If you are able to hold onto it when I cut the rope on your chest, then maybe you can pull yourself up.”
I couldn’t believe I was asking him to do this, but he still seemed so strong after being tethered to a tree for goodness knows how long. He must indeed have had the strength of a thousand men.
He strained his neck upward and lifted his long arms.
Light glistened over his wet, bloodstained skin, highlighting defined muscles. His hands were broad and square, and his fingers were long as they stretched upward—but it was not enough to grab hold of the branch.
I reached down and grasped his hand in mine. I tried to pull him up farther, but it was no good—he couldn’t reach.
Suddenly, his body slumped forward, and I felt my heart burst with fear.
He was weakening. How much breath did he have left in his chest? How much more could he take?
From under the rope, I saw the sliver of dark-red blood trickle down.
“We have to get you down from here,” I cried out, but deep down I was worried that he would not survive the fall.
My head was spinning. Maybe if I climbed down and made a deep pile of leaves underneath the tree? Maybe if I ran as fast as I could to get help? Maybe…
But all the maybes ended with the same conclusion. I didn’t have enough time.
“Cut me down,” he said. “Do it now.”
His voice was dangerously low, his breath rasping and shallow.
“But…”
“Do it now!” he roared.
Then his head slumped forward, as if in a roll with death.
